The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  She looked around frantically, but she was boxed in. Her heart hammering, she pushed open the door to the office and stepped inside.

  CHAPTER 53

  NEW YORK CITY

  After pulling the Isuzu up to the gate, which was still lowered, Vanderveen climbed out without shutting off the engine. He walked to the back, where Foster and Nazeri were waiting. Leaning in, he stared at the bomb one last time, aware that he would never again see it intact. The thought was strangely uplifting, but he couldn’t ignore the irony: in ceasing to exist, this device would create a whole new world of fear and terror.

  For the most part, it still resembled the Parker boiler, with one exception: the panel on the left side had been removed, exposing the curvature of the BLU-82. The bomb itself was strapped to a customdesigned metal pallet and surrounded by an elaborate wooden framework. Wedged inside this framework, tight against the metal shell of the bomb, was 2½ pounds of Semtex high explosive. The Semtex, in turn, was molded around a single nonelectric blasting cap, which fed 12 feet of military det cord through predrilled holes in the box and cab. The M60 fuse igniter was taped to the vinyl side of the driver’s seat; to set off the Semtex and the BLU-82, all Nazeri had to do was reach down, rip off the M60, push, turn, and pull. It was an extremely simple, efficient design. As far as Nazeri knew, he would then have approximately five minutes to get to safety before the bomb went off. In this belief, he was fatally mistaken.

  Vanderveen had spent the last hour preparing the BLU-82, and in the process, he had replaced the time fuse he’d demonstrated earlier with standard det cord. It had not been difficult to distract Nazeri long enough to make the switch. The time fuse used by the U.S. military was extremely simple: black powder wound in yarn and sealed with bitumen, all of which was wrapped in plastic tubing. The powder was distributed in such a way as to ensure a slow burn. Det cord, on the other hand, was plastic tubing filled with thousands of grains of PETN, which burned at a rate of 8,400 meters per second. From the outside, time fuse and det cord looked remarkably similar, but the difference could hardly be greater. The instant Nazeri pulled the ring on the M60, he would cease to exist, along with the core leadership of the United Iraqi Alliance.

  Vanderveen put a foot on the back bumper, reached up, and pulled down the rolling door. Once he’d secured it, he clamped on an ABUS Granit core-hardened padlock, the best that money could buy. Without the key, it would take a very long time to get through this simple piece of security.

  And with that, it was done. He turned to Nazeri.

  “It’s time.”

  Nazeri nodded, his forehead bathed in a light sheen of sweat. Vanderveen almost reached out to put a hand on the man’s shoulder, but decided it wouldn’t be welcome. For the moment, it was just the two of them. Foster was standing a few feet away, but he was not a part of what they had started so many months ago, and he seemed to know it. He stayed silent and looked back to the warehouse, clearly uneasy.

  In Farsi, Vanderveen said, “I know you’ve started to question whether you’re doing the right thing, Amir. I don’t question your love for your cousin, but I do wonder if you’re prepared to see this through. Why, when we’ve come this far, are you hesitating now?”

  Nazeri lowered his head. Vanderveen knew exactly what he was thinking: that his hesitation reflected the limits of his grief; that in pausing to think things through, he had somehow marginalized his cousin’s death. “When I do this, many people will die. Many people who were not involved in her murder.”

  “And who was responsible? In your eyes, who should pay?”

  Nazeri looked up, his eyes burning. “The government. But we’re not attacking the government.”

  “And yet you haven’t questioned the target. Why?”

  “Because I know why you picked it,” Nazeri said slowly. “It’s a symbol of the city, known the world over. It’s a public—”

  “No,” Vanderveen said. He shook his head and reached under his coat, withdrawing a single sheet of paper. “This is why.”

  Nazeri accepted the document. He was confused at first, but he read it quickly, and when he was done, his eyes seemed clearer, sharper, and his body was unnaturally still. “Is this true?”

  “Amir, I’ve never lied to you. I made it clear from the start that I had my own agenda, but I gave you the opportunity to take part because I knew your cousin, and I knew what she was trying to do. She was gunned down in Washington when she could have been taken alive, and her death was covered up so the government could save face.”

  Vanderveen paused and waited until their eyes met. “The director of the FBI is here, my friend. Here in New York, at the Renaissance Hotel in Times Square. He came to oversee security for the meeting at the UN, and in doing so, he’s given you the opportunity of a lifetime. Raseen has already verified his location. He’s there as we speak.” Along with thirty-five members of the UIA, Vanderveen thought.

  Nazeri looked at Foster, who was obviously unaware of what they were talking about. “Does he know about this?”

  “Yes,” Vanderveen replied. It was true; Foster had forged the memorandum himself. “But he can’t tell you anything I haven’t already, and we don’t have time to discuss this further. The man ultimately responsible for your cousin’s murder is within arm’s reach. Now, are you prepared to take the final step, or have you changed your mind?”

  Nazeri looked at the paper in his hand, then tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. It was a strange gesture, and Vanderveen wasn’t sure what to make of it. He waited, and in time Nazeri seemed to come back to himself.

  “No, I haven’t changed my mind.”

  Vanderveen nodded slowly. Leaving this responsibility in Nazeri’s hands was the last thing he wanted to do, but he knew it had to happen this way. In theory, he could have used a regular time fuse and set off the device himself, but Nazeri had wanted the responsibility, and Vanderveen had needed his preferred status with customs to get the daisy cutter inside the country to begin with. If he had denied the Iranian the chance to carry out the act itself, Nazeri might not have assisted him at all. Still, the other man’s firm expression — as well as Raseen’s earlier words — worked to alleviate most of Vanderveen’s lingering concerns.

  “Then go. And good luck, my friend. This is the last time we will meet.”

  Nazeri nodded and moved to the cab. As he climbed up and shut the door, Vanderveen started toward the chain that raised and lowered the roll-down vehicular door. With one hand on the chain, he glanced at his watch and turned to Foster. “Go and take care of the woman. Kealey will be here in a few minutes.”

  The FBI agent nodded and started back toward the warehouse. As the door cleared the top of the truck, the Isuzu rolled out onto West Thirty-seventh, then turned right, the transmission whining as Nazeri shifted gears, the engine struggling with the weight in the box. Vanderveen lowered the door and looked back as Foster disappeared from view. He hesitated, then turned and walked quickly to the pedestrian gate. As he unlocked it and stepped into the street, he thought he heard Foster shouting something from inside the warehouse, but he ignored it and shut the gate behind him. He thought about locking it, but decided against it.

  Directly across the street was a small parking lot. Vehicles in long-term storage were stacked on metal racks, while others were arranged in tight, neat lines on the cement. One of those cars was a red Mercury Sable. Aware of horns blasting to his left, Vanderveen turned to see what was happening. A car was approaching rapidly from the east. He turned to his right and saw that the Isuzu had already vanished into traffic. Nazeri would reach his target in a matter of minutes.

  He crossed to the south side of the street, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. When he reached the Sable, he unlocked the door quickly and slipped into the driver’s seat. The car was Nazeri’s personal vehicle. He was barely inside when a silver Accord squealed to a halt in front of the warehouse, and two people got out. He didn’t know the woman, but he would have recognized R
yan Kealey any-where. As he watched through the windshield, they approached the pedestrian gate with their weapons out, checked it, and found it unlocked. Then they passed through.

  As Naomi slipped into the office, her eyes were drawn first to the phone on the desk. She started toward it, aware of someone shouting in the warehouse. She realized it was Foster; she could hear him calling to Vanderveen, screaming that she had escaped. She looked around wildly, forgetting the phone. It wouldn’t take him more than a few seconds to figure out where she had gone, and when he did, he would throw open the door and kill her. She had no choice but to act first.

  She went to the desk and started pulling open drawers as fast as she could, spilling the drawers and their contents onto the floor. As the third crashed to the ground, she looked down and found what she needed: a Smith & Wesson Model 60 revolver. She didn’t believe it at first; it seemed too good to be true, an impossible stroke of luck, but she snatched it up without hesitation. There wasn’t time to see if it was loaded. She only had time to do two things: draw back the hammer and level the weapon in outstretched arms. Then the office door flew open, and Foster appeared before her. His eyes went wide at the sight of the gun. He started to bring his own to bear, but Naomi was faster.

  The first time, she barely had to touch the trigger. Foster jerked as the .38+P round tore into his chest, but he still managed to get off a shot as Naomi squeezed the trigger again. Foster’s single round burned past her ear, slamming into the brick wall behind her head. At the same time, her second round drilled into the right side of his chest. Amazingly, he managed to level the gun again, his face twisted in fury and pain.

  Naomi closed her eyes, held her breath, and pulled the trigger until all she heard was the sound of the hammer falling on empty chambers.

  Before the car came to a complete halt on West Thirty-seventh, Kealey was already pushing open his door, but Crane beat him to it. She approached the pedestrian gate, gun out, muzzle down, as Kealey came round the front of the car. He could smell burning rubber from the tires as Crane tried the gate and found it unlocked. She looked at him, nodded once, and pushed through. He followed instantly, less than 2 feet behind her.

  The parking area was empty, except for some pallets stacked in the corner and a blue Crown Vic. “That’s from the motor pool at the FO,” Crane said in a low voice. “He’s here.”

  “But no truck,” Kealey pointed out. He felt suddenly numb; they were too late.

  As Crane approached the warehouse, he moved to the car, looking through the windows. On the passenger-side floor he saw something that chilled his blood: Naomi’s purse. She had to be inside the building.

  Involuntarily, his eyes moved to the glass doors of the warehouse, which were still propped open. He knew that as soon as he walked through those doors, there was a good chance he would find her body and nothing more. He found himself frozen, unwilling to take the next step, but then he heard a scream — a woman’s scream — followed immediately by shots. Crane, 10 feet from the door of the warehouse, seemed to hesitate for an instant, and then she dashed forward. At the same time, four more shots echoed within the building. Kealey sprinted forward, trying to catch up, shouting for Crane to wait, but she ignored him. She reached the doors and ran through, her 10mm up in a two-handed stance. Kealey heard two more shots as he covered the last 20 feet, heart pounding. He had no idea what he was heading into; all he knew was that he had to get through those doors.

  As Foster slumped to the ground, Naomi found herself reaching down to grab his weapon. The revolver was empty, useless, and only one of the three men was down. Her head was buzzing with fear and adrenaline. She couldn’t seem to hear anything, and her vision was blurred. Looking down, she could see that the FBI agent wasn’t quite dead, but it wouldn’t be long. His eyes were still moving, his mouth open, stains spreading wet on his chest. She could hear a strange rattling noise as he tried to breathe through the fluid collecting in his throat. It was the first time she had ever killed another human being, but even as that thought hit her, along with a storm of emotions, a noise cut through the shock. She heard a man shouting, the words indistinct, and knew at once that it had to be Vanderveen.

  Her eyes shot up, along with Foster’s gun, but Vanderveen didn’t come running into the warehouse. Instead, it was a woman — blond hair, black sweater, gun in hand. Her features were instantly recognizable; Naomi had never seen Samantha Crane in person, but she’d seen a number of photographs, and she knew who this was.

  Suddenly, everything Ryan had said about Crane came back in a hot, fierce rush: It had to be her. No one else knew about Berlin. No one else knew….

  Crane’s weapon was up and traversing the room. Suddenly, it was swinging right toward the office.

  Right toward her.

  Naomi squeezed the trigger once, saw she had missed, and squeezed it again. Crane stopped dead in her tracks, her head snapping back. As the gun slipped out of her grasp, she lifted a hand to her face, pressing it hard against the hole in her cheek. Her eyes opened wide, and she let out a choked cry. Then her gaze went blank and she dropped to the floor, almost as if the life had been pulled right out of her body.

  At that moment, Ryan Kealey entered the warehouse. Naomi snapped Foster’s gun toward him and barely managed to avoid squeezing the trigger again. From that point on, everything happened in slow motion. She saw him stare at her, his gaze drifting down to the gun in her hand. Then he looked from the gun to Samantha Crane. Finally, their eyes met, and from the stunned look on his face, Naomi knew she had just made a terrible mistake.

  CHAPTER 54

  NEW YORK CITY

  In the small parking lot across from the warehouse, Will Vanderveen lifted his phone and dialed a number. Yasmin Raseen picked up on the first ring.

  “Yes?”

  “Where are you?” Vanderveen asked.

  “I just left the hotel,” she replied. “The lobby is full of security officers. I think most of the delegates must still be inside.”

  “Good. Does it look like they’re getting ready to leave?”

  “No. I don’t see any cars outside the building. At least not the right kind of cars.”

  Vanderveen knew what she meant. The members of the UIA scheduled to attend the General Assembly meeting in less than three hours would be protected not only by their own security teams, but also by sworn agents with the U.S. Diplomatic Security Service. The vehicles that would eventually come to collect the delegates would be Lincoln Town Cars or something similar, undoubtedly bearing diplomatic or government plates. The official vehicles would be easy to spot, especially since they’d be surrounded by NYPD escort cars and motorcycles.

  “So we’re on track.”

  “I believe so,” she replied. “Is it time for me to leave?”

  “Yes.” Vanderveen shot a glance at his watch. “In fact, you need to move fast… Nazeri left nearly two minutes ago. You don’t have time to get to the subway, not from where you are now, so grab a taxi and try to get some buildings between you and the hotel. Otherwise, you’re still in the blast radius.”

  “Understood.”

  Her voice was unnaturally calm, given the gravity of the moment. Vanderveen smiled and shook his head, quietly impressed. “I’ll call you when it’s done.”

  He hung up and leaned back in the driver’s seat of the Sable, studying the pedestrian gate on the other side of the street. Kealey and the woman had been inside the warehouse for less than a minute, and he couldn’t help but wonder what they had found. He hadn’t heard any gunfire, but he knew that didn’t mean a thing; the sound wouldn’t carry beyond the thick walls of the warehouse. It was a strange feeling, knowing that people were dying a few feet away and not being able to see them meet their end. A rather disappointing feeling.

  He waited, wondering who would emerge in the end.

  Inside the warehouse, Kealey moved forward instantly, dropping to one knee by Crane’s body. Naomi watched him move from a distance, aware of a rising d
read, a building fear. After a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, he looked up and stared at her in disbelief. “Jesus, Naomi, what did you do?”

  “Wait,” she heard herself say. The gun was still in her hands, held down by her waist, but she couldn’t feel it; she couldn’t feel anything. She was still trying to figure out what was happening here. “I don’t understand.”

  “Why the hell did you shoot her?”

  “What are you talking about? She had a gun, Ryan. I—”

  “She wasn’t part of this.” Kealey checked Crane’s pulse but looked up a moment later, shaking his head. “She’s gone. Jesus Christ, you killed her.”

  “No, I…” Naomi felt a terrible pain swelling up in her chest, rising into her throat. She shook her head in an effort to deny what was happening. “She’s with Foster. She was working with Vanderveen. You said it yourself. She was working against us.”

  She stopped when she saw the grim look on his face. “It wasn’t Crane, Naomi. It was Foster. Just Foster, the whole time. Rudaki confirmed it less than an hour ago.”

  “That’s not possible.” She could hear her voice rising, climbing into hysteria. There was no way she had just killed an innocent person. It had to be some kind of nightmare, some kind of horrible illusion. An out-of-body experience, maybe. There was just no other explanation. “That’s just not possible.”

  Kealey got to his feet but didn’t look at her. “Naomi, she wasn’t involved—”